


A Problem in Cambridge Ethics

by AHappierYear



Series: Gosh, Risley! [2]
Category: Maurice (1987), Maurice - E. M. Forster, The Longest Journey - E.M. Forster
Genre: Again, Bolsheviks, Canon Compliant, Class Differences, Clive is embarrassed by Risley, Edward Carpenter, Historical, Historical References, John Addington Symonds - Freeform, M/M, Not expecting this one to get many hits, Period Typical Attitudes, Philosophy, Socialism, Uranians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23825551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHappierYear/pseuds/AHappierYear
Summary: Risley is not really sure he understands Clive and Clive is absolutely sure he doesn't understand Risley. Could meeting Risley's fling bring them closer together or just upset Clive further?
Relationships: Cilve Durham & Risley (Maurice), Risley (Maurice)/Original Character
Series: Gosh, Risley! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1716793
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10





	A Problem in Cambridge Ethics

**Author's Note:**

> Been sitting on two ideas that kind of made their way into this fic: one, Clive and Risley reading Symonds and Carpenter, and two, Risley educating Clive on all the words that could describe gay men available at the time. It turned into something very different, though. Historical notes at the end.

Risley was not at the top of his game. He didn’t do well in the cold and the dark. The snow had begun to overwhelm the University, which always dampened his wit and made him more reclusive. This suited Durham well; he found Risley difficult to deal with when he was his typically enthusiastic self. When he was a little depressed, however, Risley was more manageable. He folded into a man who could almost be considered normal, the sharp edges and organic shapes of his personality chipped off nicely. Durham was not exactly conscious of the fact that he liked Risley better in the winter because Risley was personally worse off, but he always found himself appearing on Risley’s dormitory doorstep more frequently come November.

It was a cold day and they were both swaddled in all the clothes they owned in Risley’s room. Usually they would lounge in front of the fire without a jacket or coat, just a shirt, but the air was absolutely frigid and they bundled up in everything, including shoes. 

Durham had a habit of getting up, shuffling back and forth on his feet, and staring out the window at the snow, weakly remarking “it’s cold” every time. There was something that he wanted to see, beyond the frost and the little figures slicing through the campus in their jackets, although he didn’t know what. The identical dormitory facing Risley’s window frustratingly blocked the view of anything interesting. He had finally sat down after setting a record which he was vaguely aware Risley was not fond of. 

The two were alone so they were free to discuss what they usually talked about when it was just them. Durham jokingly called it “the affliction” and seriously called it “the minority,” and Risley had all sorts of colorful words for it. Risley had recently taken to calling himself a “Uranian” which was a word he learned from some Carpenter and Symonds books he and Durham shared. They disagreed on which philosopher’s ideas were better for men of their sort, Risley preferring Carpenter’s frankness, and Durham insisting that Symonds’ ideas about egalitarian love were better.

“I like John Symonds. His writing just feels right.”

“You counter me with Symonds! He’s not some Christian a-sexual saint. Have you even read _Modern Ethics_ ? He’s certainly more sympathetic to degenerates like me who frequent the boy bars than you pretend. He even defends prostitution! It’s all much more radical than your hyper-platonic Grecophile nonsense that you’re always trying to force on me. _Excuse me_ if I find a real man with human skin more attractive than a marble statue.”

“You and your ‘boy bars.’ It’s vile, I don’t know how you can even stand to taint your adequate mind frequenting them.”

Risley smiled facetiously. “‘Adequate mind?’ You’re too kind.” He kept his smile, but the kind light went out from his eyes and he thrust a finger towards Durham’s chest. “You know, one man’s trash is another man’s _treasure_.”

“I want nothing to do with trash or treasure. Deciding what’s what takes far too much argument.”

“Come on, Durham, I know you live for that kind of conversation. I see you ricocheting off the walls like a blond bullet on campus when you’re chasing a chap you think will listen to you.”

Durham frowned and looked at Risley with all the imposing, pointed aggression he could muster, which was admittedly not very impressive. “I suppose I just don’t like discussing it with you. Specifically you.”

It seemed that Durham had genuinely offended Risley, who raised his eyebrows and stood stock straight. “I’m _nothing_ if not a good conversationalist. Everyone tells me so. It’s the only compliment many a professor has been willing to give me.”

“You just can’t take things seriously. I say something about religion or permanency or some other existential tosh and you wave it off with a bright smile and a double-entendre. You have the capacity to understand these things, but you don’t work to do so. Sometimes I wonder why you’re even here. What do you have to gain from a Cambridge education?”

“You know, I’ve never really thought about that.”

“Exactly. I can’t imagine you working really hard at anything except being vaguely charming. How’s that going to factor into your future? In the long run, I mean.”

“It is true, Mr. Durham, that I have no plans, but that’s the best way to be. Nothing can go wrong that way.” 

The record spun to its end and Durham hopped up to replace it with a new one, methodically flipping through Risley’s oak box of music. Risley took out a lavender notebook and began flipping through it, stopping on a page near the end and meeting Durham’s gaze with a smile as the music resumed.

“Listen, we’ll have a compromise. You’ll come and mingle with the criminal ‘afflicted’ of the world and I’ll find you a conversation partner worth your salt.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’ve got a… confidant at The Working Men’s College. He’s the rough-and-tumble type I think you’re imagining when you think of my deviance, but he’s _wonderfully_ smart and reminds me of you in a lot of ways. I have his address written down here; we’ll meet him in London and you’ll get a little taste of my world with a pleasant guide. It’ll lift both of our spirits.”

“Well, alright.”

“Come on, we’ll turn you into a Bolshevist yet.” They tumbled out of Risley’s room and moved to hail a cab into London. 

“Are you a Bolshevist?” Durham pronounced the word with some difficulty. Although he was certainly a deep thinker, he was not one for current events. He was not following Lenin and his comrades in Belgium and this, too, was unfamiliar territory to him. 

“I’m considering it, although I’m considering a lot of things. I think most of the men here are inexcusably awful to the lower classes, although I’m not much for charity myself.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I like to _keep_ my money, don’t I?”

“So you’d rather have the government take it away from you?”

“Exactly, Durham, you understand me more than my own mother. Admittedly, she believes I’m going to be a professional cricket player that I’m engaged to an Austrian girl, but that’s just the minutiae of our relationship.” The cab slid to a halt and Clive gestured for Risley to climb out. 

“Ladies first!”

Risley’s sharp figures took on a new, melancholy life as they passed under the streetlights. The yellow light illuminated his dark brown eyes with blooming yellow stars. His nose and brow cast deep purple shadows over his untanned skin. He had left his hair bare. Durham pulled the brim of his own hat over his face so that his whole face was hidden in flat darkness. 

“I wish it would rain,” blurted Risley, apropo of nothing.

“Come again?”

“I like the sound. The pitter-patter, it reminds me of _running_. I used to be very good at running when I was in school, even in the rain, but I gave it up for sitting and speaking indoors.”

“You can do both.”

“Not at the same time. Not well, anyway.” This had the cadence of a classic Risley joke there was a tinge of darkness to his voice. 

“You don’t have to do just one thing.”

“I love doing one thing. I’m _very_ good at being me, as I have lots of practice.”

“Well, I’m horrible at being me.”

Risley dropped his jaw in mock surprise. “Really, I haven’t noticed!”

“There’s no need to be cruel.”

“My nature is a cruel one. It’s a tragedy, I know, but there’s nothing to be done.”

“Alright.”

They were dropped off at a tall set of apartments. It was clearly very old. Durham speculated it might have been built in the 20’s, but when in its infancy, it had to have been very fancy and respectable. Intricate molding arched around the doorway, cupping it in chipped filigreed hands. Two stone cherubs reclined lazily over the entrance, although one was missing a hand and one had both its wings splattered in black paint or tar. 

Risley drifted up the three flights of stairs easily and quickly, practically floating from step to step, with Durham following just behind. “His name is Johnathan James, which really tickles me. The alliteration reminds me of a story book hero,” said Risley, knocking on the door. 

A man in breeches and a soft collar opened the door. “John! James! Jimmy! ‘Nathan! Johnny! Jack! Jewel of my life, _Johnathan James_ , Vernon Risley has returned!” Risley cried, raising his arms. This was summer Risley, through and through. 

“Oh, hullo, Vernon.”

“Johnathan!!”

“Who’s this?” Johnathan looked curiously at Durham who fiddled with his hands and looked downcast at the floor. “What’s his relation?”

“Johnny, we’ve just come to talk, which I know is not our usual arrangement, but,” and he took John’s hands, “you know I think you’re my absolute soul mate and I'd like to introduce you to my absolute _greatest_ friend in the entire world.”

Durham met eyes with John and shook his head. “I wanted to meet someone who goes to The Working Men’s College, and Risley told me we would get along nicely.”

“That’s fine. Come on in.”

The three men settled into the flat. Well-kept albeit out of style furniture was arranged nicely around the space and the room felt cozy but not overly crowded. Durham jealousy eyed the buzzing the radiator in the corner. Risley flung his coat off and flopped onto the floor, motioning for John to sit with him. After nervously looking for approval from Durham, who shrugged, John sat down with his legs crossed and laid Risley’s head in his lap, stroking his hair. Durham stared at the two, his eyes blank. 

“So, Risley brought me here to discuss metaphysics… or something.”

“That’s all well.”

“I hear you’re a very impressive student at your school.”

“One could say that.”

“Oh, he’s positively _gifted_ ,” interjected Risley. “In more ways than one.” Durham missed this joke, or at least pretended to, and continued cautiously. 

“So, here’s an argument I’ve been having with Ansell lately, just to start with-”

“I hate Ansell,” laughed Risley. “Far too serious and silly at the same time.”

“Will you shut up?”

“ _No!_ ”

“I apologize,” murmured John. “He can be a lot to take in at once.”

“I'm well aware,” replied Durham, and all three laughed.

“Okay, here we go. John, imagine a cow. A cow somewhere far away, in France, perhaps. How can you know it’s really there if you can’t see it?”

“Well, you could get proof of ownership from the farmer, or a photograph, maybe,” John said. Risley clapped his hand on John’s.

“No, you have no contact with the farmer. A friend has told you about the cow, and all you need to figure out is if it exists, but you can’t see it at all.”

“I don’t think it really matters. As long as whoever owns it can find it to milk it when needed, it’s an extant cow, and a useful one at that, and one needn’t worry about it. However, I know what you’re trying to ask me, and I’ll humor you. If this one cow doesn’t exist, we can’t be sure any other cow in the world really exists if we don’t have our eyes on it, and I’m sure neither of us see many cows in our day to day lives. However, we always have milk for tea and baking, which must come from somewhere, hence we know at least one cow exists. It would be a great logical leap to assume this one cow is fictional, and not a very good show of trust for your friend.”

“You talk very well. Okay, then, not a cow. Something that there is no proof of existence in our daily lives. A giraffe, then.”

“Well, I don’t know for sure a giraffe is not a fairytale, you’ve got me there. But it’s wonderful to think of a giraffe. I don’t think everything people believe in must make sense, and I’d rather us believe in things like giraffes than not because it makes me joyful.”

“There’s another argument- you think that belief shouldn’t follow logic?”

“The world’s much nicer when it doesn’t.”

“Now, this is interesting. How do you mean?”

“Well, I… love Mr. Risley here, and I believe in us as a unit. However, one, I know he’s involved with many others and two, I am not a woman, so, logically, I was not made to love him. We don’t exactly… fit right.”

“Don’t be vulgar, John,” scream-laughed Risley.

“Could say the same for you most of the time.”

Durham was silent. “Risley, what do you think about all this?”

“I don’t know.” Durham looked at him quixotically. “I have nothing to say.”

“That’s not a very Risley thing to admit.”

“Well, sometimes one just has to sit and be… _serious_. Terrifying, I know. I like to be serious in this flat, though, with John. Serious as I can be, anyway.” John blushed. 

“I see.”

“Durham, you should leave, I think.” Risley hummed a little tune, dragging his arm up John’s. 

“Oh, no, I like Durham loads,” said John. “You should stay and we can just talk for once.”

Risley smiled deviously. “Or-”

A sudden fear rushed over Durham. “I couldn’t possibly linger for much longer. I’m already risking my reputation by visiting. I must be home. Goodbye, sir.”

“What’s your Christian name, Durham?”

“Huh? Clive.”

“Goodbye, then, Clive.”

Durham shuttled out the door. He was surprised to not feel offended by the flippant use of his first name. He had to visit John sometime and speak more, even if frequenting a low-class apartment like this would cause suspicion. He liked the man tremendously, but he hated the subterfuge that it would require.

Damn it all! Why couldn’t he just talk without Risley reminding him how most men of his type acted? Why couldn’t he just discuss Symonds, speak about the Greeks, do all the things Risley wouldn’t do for John? Well, he hoped Risley was happy there. They were probably rolling about on the floor right then. 

Durham was angry. He had helped Risley find himself again, but had lost his own soul in the process. It seemed his whole life was a cycle of startlingly clearness and muddle. Well, at least Risley would have to come down again and they could stew in their directionlessness together. 

Clive was not at the top of his game. This was cruel. It was a tragedy, Durham thought, that he felt this way about Risley’s inner conflict. 

But there was nothing to be done. London was to be cold for a couple months more and Risley and he would have to push through the sleet as best as two men could. Durham wished he had someone to overwinter with, but Risley would never do, he was far too clever, and too aloof. He passed under the two cherubs again and paused before hailing a cab back to the dormitory. The street was quiet at night. There he was, wrapped in the darkness, wanting, but not wanting anything specific. 

How could anyone be sure _he_ was really there?

Well, it was nice to think that he was. And that was alright. 

**Author's Note:**

> Some context:
> 
> Symonds and Carpenter were 19th century theorists that both wrote about homosexuality whose ideas are often contrasted with each other. Symonds wrote about "pure" Greek love in which two men are connected through their soul but not through sex. Clive's character in the original novel, in my opinion, is a parody of these ideas. The title of this fic comes from Symonds' collection of essays "A Problem in Modern Ethics" which discusses gay culture in 19th century England.
> 
> The Working Men's College, now The Camden College in London, was founded by Christian socialists to educate men who couldn't afford educations at institutions like Oxford or Cambridge. Forster taught Latin there before publishing his first novel. 
> 
> At this time, folks in England would have probably used the term "Bolshevist" rather than "Bolshevik" because of their obsession with Anglicizing every word they come across. The Russian Revolution wouldn't happen for at least five years after this fic takes place, so it wasn't terribly taboo to associate oneself with them. 
> 
> Ansell is a character in Forster's second novel "The Longest Journey" who originally posits the cow question. He and Clive are very similar and probably based on the same real life figure so I thought they might get along.


End file.
